pool. “Bright orange ones, it appears. We had some like them back in my father’s ornamental garden.”
Gaz leaned down, trying to get a good look, until one of the eels broke the surface with a flipping tail, spraying him with water. Shallan laughed, taking a Memory of the one-eyed man peering into those verdant depths, lips pursed, wiping his forehead.
“What do you want, Gaz?”
“Well,” he said, shuffling. “I was wondering . . .” He glanced at the sketchpad.
Shallan flipped to a new page in the pad. “Of course. Like the one I did for Glurv, I assume?”
Gaz coughed into his hand. “Yeah. That one looked right nice.”
Shallan smiled, then started sketching.
“Do you need me to pose or something?” Gaz asked.
“Sure,” she said, mostly to keep him busy while she drew. She tidied up his uniform, smoothing out his paunch, taking liberties with his chin. Most of the difference, however, had to do with the expression. Looking up, into the distance. With the right expression, that eye patch became noble, that scarred face became wise, that uniform became a mark of pride. She filled it in with some light background details reminiscent of that night beside the fires, when the people of the caravan had thanked Gaz and the others for their rescue.
She removed the sheet from the pad, then turned it toward him. Gaz took it reverently, running his hand through his hair. “Storms,” he whispered. “Is that really what I looked like?”
“Yes,” Shallan said. She could faintly feel Pattern as he vibrated softly nearby. A lie . . . but also a truth. That was certainly how the people Gaz saved had viewed him.
“Thank you, Brightness,” Gaz said. “I . . . Thank you.” Ash’s eyes! He actually seemed to be tearing up.
“Keep it safe,” Shallan said, “and don’t fold it until tonight. I’ll lacquer it so it won’t smudge.”
He nodded and walked, frightening the plants again as he retreated. He was the sixth of the men to ask her for a likeness. She encouraged the requests. Anything to remind them of what they could, and should, be.
And you, Shallan? she thought. Everyone seems to want you to be something. Jasnah, Tyn, your father . . . What do you want to be?
She flipped back through her sketchbook, finding the pages where she’d drawn herself in a half-dozen different situations. A scholar, a woman of the court, an artist. Which did she want to be?
Could she be them all?
Pattern hummed. Shallan glanced to the side, noticing Vathah lurking in the trees nearby. The tall mercenary leader hadn’t said anything of the sketches, but she saw his sneers.
“Stop frightening my plants, Vathah,” Shallan said.
“Macob says we’ll stop for the night,” Vathah replied, then moved away.
“Trouble . . .” Pattern buzzed. “Yes, trouble.”
“I know,” Shallan said, waiting as the foliage returned, then sketching it. Unfortunately, though she’d been able to get charcoal and lacquer from the merchants, she didn’t have any colored chalks, or she might have tried something more ambitious. Still, this would be a nice series of studies. Quite a change from the rest in this sketchbook.
She pointedly did not think about what she had lost.
She drew and drew, enjoying the simple peace of the small thicket. Lifespren joined her, the little green motes bobbing between leaves and blossoms. Pattern moved out onto the water and, amusingly, began quietly counting the leaves on a nearby tree. Shallan got a good half-dozen drawings of the pond and trees, hoping she’d be able to identify those from a book later on. She made sure to do some close-up views showing the leaves in detail, then moved on to drawing whatever struck her.
It was so nice to not be moving on a wagon while sketching. The environment here was just perfect—sufficient light for drawing, still and serene, surrounded by life . . .
She paused, noticing what she’d drawn: a rocky shore near the ocean, with distinctive cliffs rising behind. The perspective was distant; on the rocky shore, several shadowy figures helped one another out of the water. She swore one of them was Yalb.
A hopeful fancy. She wished so much for them to be alive. She would probably never know.
She turned the page and drew what came to her. A sketch of a woman kneeling over a body, raising a hammer and chisel, as if to slam it down into the person’s face. The one beneath her was stiff, wooden . . . maybe even stone?
Shallan shook her head as she lowered